


Seasons of Strangers

by consulting_vulcan_jedi_detective



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Kingkiller Chronicle - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: AU, Crossover, Edema Ruh, Gen, The University - The Kingkiller Chronicle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_vulcan_jedi_detective/pseuds/consulting_vulcan_jedi_detective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is expelled from the University, he and John decide to seek a new teacher: Kvothe the Arcane, long thought to be dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The door bangs as Sherlock stumbles into the room. “John, John, I—“ his voice drops, frightened, uncertain. “I did something bad, John.”

John sits up, bleary-eyed, in his bed. “God, Sherlock, it’s nearly three in the morning,” he mutters after his initial surprise. “What is it?”

The little light in the room reflects off of Sherlock’s wide eyes. He frantically mutters a binding, and the lamp overhead sputters to life.

As John blinks away stars, he sees Sherlock’s hands. “Oh my God, what did you do to yourself?” He jumps out of bed and runs to his friend.

“It’s not mine, John,” Sherlock says of the blood covering his arms and up his sleeves and across the front of his shirt. He’s shivering, and John sees that not only is his cloak gone, his shirt is torn through along the left side.

Outside, the wind is howling, and he estimates the temperature outside to be near freezing, judging from the texture of Sherlock’s skin.

“What happened?” John asks gently.

“I—I found,” his voice breaks, “I found the name of blood, John.”

A quick intake of breath. “Will you tell me what happened?” John questions, cautiously.

Sherlock shakes his head, vehemently. “It’s not going away, John. Names—they’re supposed to leave you soon after you’ve found them, especially the complex ones, but it’s still there,” his voice deadens, “It’s still there and I can see it on my hands and in you and in Molly’s stupid cat and in every living thing that I see, and _it won’t go away_.”

John blinks. “Okay. I’m guessing that’s not a good thing.”

“No! No it’s not, it’s an awful thing and I’m afraid that if I do anything I’ll kill someone!”

“Okay,” John says again.

“It’s not okay, John. I don’t know what to do. I can’t go to class today. I can’t see anyone…” he trails off, then asks frantically, eyes wider than before, “What if they expel me from the University?”

John sighs. “Look, Sherlock, they won’t expel you for finding a name. They can’t… We’ll go to Master Elodin. Right now. I’m sure he can help.”

Sherlock collapses back against the door, hard. “Elodin hates me, John. After what I did, do you think he wants anything to do with me now?”

“Bones mend. Egos heal. I’m sure if you really need help, he won’t turn you away. And he doesn’t mind me so much.”

“You don’t know Elodin,” Sherlock mutters, staring glassily down at his hands.

x

“Of course he wouldn’t be in, damn him,” Sherlock says in desperation, hammering at the door with both hands.

Elodin’s rooms are technically in the Master’s Hall, but the eccentric man rarely is where he’s expected to be. Almost every student in the University has heard of Elodin’s time in Haven. Haven is famous for its patients, those driven mad through naming or sympathy, the Master Namer being the most famous of these. People still wonder why Elodin is allowed to hold the position of Master.

Sherlock slumps to the ground, again gazing at his hands. They’ve washed off most of the blood, but in a hurry, and under his fingernails are telltale traces of dark crimson. He heaves a deep breath.

“We should try the roof,” he says finally.

John looks askance at Sherlock. “The roof,” he says, half a question.

Sherlock nods.

x

Elodin is, unexplainably, on the roof, in the middle of the night.

“E’lir John, what brings you here tonight?” Master Namer calls lightly across the wind. His face sours when he sees Sherlock trailing behind. “And the young master Holmes as well, I see. What do you want?”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, then spills out everything he’s told John, in one incoherent sentence.

Master Elodin blinks in reply, caught off guard. “I caught something about names, E’lir Sherlock, but not much else, so will you calm down and explain this clearly?” He pauses. “We’ll go to my office and you’ll tell what you’ve done now.”

x

Elodin’s office is both neat and chaotic. His desk is mostly clear and the majority of the objects in the room are in the shelves lining all four walls, but there appears to be no system to the arrangement. Tools are piled on top of jars of dark substances; writing utensils are thrown carelessly into a single boot that is, inexplicably, painted with purple stripes. Empty picture frames are stacked on one shelf. Books clutter every available space except for one drawer, glass-fronted and containing a bent, copper nail.

There is also a skull, which John manages to find amusing before the gravity of the situation overwhelms him.

“You did not,” Elodin says incredulously when Sherlock explains. It’s the first time either of them have seen the master even remotely ruffled.

“Master Elodin, please, _please_ , I’m begging you, help me. I can’t make it stop.” Sherlock’s desperation is evident through his voice. “It changes, too, and I can see it change when I look at you or John, and if I try to close my eyes it’s written on my eyelids.” He glances up at Elodin before looking down again. His voice drops to a whisper. “I think I can understand how naming can drive a person mad, Master.”

Elodin looks at him sharply. “This isn’t the way it usually goes, E’lir, I’ll tell you that for free.”

John breaks in. “But can you help him, Master?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Elodin replies faintly. “I don’t know.”

“Master. Is there a way to put the sleeping mind back to sleep?” Sherlock utters his first entirely coherent words of the night.

Elodin shakes his head. “The same way that one cannot wake it on purpose, one cannot put it away at whim.” He sighed, then came to a conclusion. “Sleep on it, E’lir. That’s all I have for you now, but tomorrow the masters will speak with you. Noon precisely. Notify me before then if the name leaves you.”

John and Sherlock walk back to Mews, both in a daze.

x

“I didn’t ask you about the name, E’lir, I asked what you did with it, as apparently Elodin neglected to ask you for that particular bit of information,” the Chancellor, Master Linguist, nearly shouts.

“He was under a lot of stress, Master, “ Elodin cuts in. “I didn’t think—“

The Chancellor scowls at Elodin. “I wasn’t aware that you cared for his welfare so much,” he says sharply. He turns back to Sherlock. “This is a matter of serious concern for me because, just this morning, I received notice that there is a rather large puddle of what appears to be human remains in front of the Archive.”

This time Elodin’s surprise is in his lack of physical reaction. “The boy did what?”

Several of the masters share glances. Hemme, in particular, almost looks smug, as does Brandeur, and Lorren does not react at all, which is unsurprising given that the Archive is his domain.

“It was an accident,” Sherlock blurts.

Master Herma’s gaze narrows. “Then you admit that it was you,” he states.

Sherlock looks at each of the nine faces in front of him in panic. He finds no comfort there, not even in Elodin’s inscrutable face, and turns back to Chancellor Herma. “Yes, yes it was me, but _please_ , it wasn’t on purpose! I can explain—”

Hemme interrupts him. “Do you think that being the youngest student in the University is going to help your case, Holmes? Perhaps because it helped Kvothe? Well, follow his path and you’ll end up dead, and quite frankly that’s where I think you belong,” he spits.

“Master Hemme, you will hold your tongue,” the Chancellor rebukes him.

Hemme ignores him. “The boy is insolent, dangerous, unstable. He should not be given the power of the things taught here. It isn’t too late to make him leave.”

“ _Master Hemme_.”

He shuts up.

The Chancellor sighs. “Holmes, you will state your case, in all detail, or I _will_ expel you right now, I doubt that there are any who would oppose this decision.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

“Loi Seven was going through my rooms, sir, last night. He—“

“You killed Loi Seven?” Elodin asks incredulously. The Chancellor shushes him.

“He took a hairbrush, sir. I didn’t know it was him, but I suspected, and my door ward had been tripped. I tracked Loi to the Archive—“ He is interrupted again, this time by Elxa Dal, Master Sympathist.

“How did you track him if you didn’t know who he was?” he asks suspiciously.

Sherlock flushes slightly. He’d been hoping to avoid that particular point. “My wards are modified, sir. They—take notes, of a sort. When I got to my room, I could tell that Loi had been in my room, and the first thing I checked for was the hairbrush. It wasn’t that hard to find him after that. His rooms are across the University at the Cross Keys Inn and the Archive was one of the places he’d go by from Mews.

“He was there, and I could tell that he had the hairbrush. He’d already been shaping a mommet while he was walking, sir,” his voice rises, “and he was making a second. I trailed him. He didn’t notice me until I was a couple yards behind him, but he did notice me and he caught me by surprise when he spun and threw me to the ground.

“I don’t know how it happened, I swear by my hands I don’t know. Naming is like that, isn’t it? One minute I was being choked to death – he didn’t even need sympathy for that –, and the next, I could see it, well, not _see_ it exactly, but it was there, and I reacted in panic. I was scared and _angry_.

“It was _everywhere_ ,” he moans. “I was sick, and then I ran to John’s room because I didn’t know what to do.”

Silence pervades the room. Several masters are wide-eyed. Elodin is blank-faced.

x

“They expelled you?” John asks incredulously.

“Yes. It’s okay, John,” he adds hastily. “I need to find a teacher who will take me for who I am. Elodin can’t do that because he’s part of the University, and I’m being kicked out at the end of the span.”

John is outraged. “It was an accident, Sherlock. You should appeal.”

Sherlock sighs wearily as he packs up his meager belongings. “They were pretty lenient, actually. I didn’t get any lashes, no fines, no anything but the command to be away from the University and Imre within three days,” he paused. “They also told me that if they ever heard news of me causing trouble of any sort, Elxa Dal would personally hunt me down. All in all, a _very_ merciful punishment for murder.”

“It’s technically manslaughter, Sherlock, and unintentional. Where will you go?”

An awkward pause. “…I’m going to find Kvothe.”

“Sherlock, Kvothe is dead. He died years ago.” John jumps off of Sherlock’s bed and stalks toward his friend.

“No, he’s not. I know he isn’t. He’s still alive, somewhere, and who better than me to find him?”

John knows better than to question Sherlock in times like this. He comes to a quick decision. “I’ll go with you.”

Sherlock looks up sharply. “No, you won’t. John, you have a life here. What about Serrah? She’ll miss you. And you’ll make Re’lar within two terms. I’m certain of that. And most of the masters like you. Except for Hemme and Brandeur, but Hemme barely likes anyone and Brandeur is Hemme’s lackey, for all intents and purposes,” he says bitterly.

“Sherlock, I can’t let you do this alone. You told me once that you’d never had anyone to rely on. Well, now you do. I’m your friend, Sherlock, and I won’t allow you to do something as ridiculous as this without me to watch your back.” John is adamant on this.

“John. _John_.” he hesitates. “Look, the real reason why I don’t want you to come is that I’m afraid that I’ll hurt you. I told you that the name of blood won’t leave me, and that’s true. Whenever I look at you, I can see it in you and I know what kinds of horrible things I could do to you or anyone else.”

John narrows his eyes, “Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. This isn’t about the name, or even you. It’s about me, and because I’m a decent person, I want to help you. And the best way to do that is go with you.”

“But—“

“But nothing. I trust you not to hurt me. You wouldn’t let yourself do anything like that. I know you’re a good person, Sherlock. Don’t let me down.”

“I—I’ll try not to.”

“Then let me come with you.”

x

The morning is cool, the air crisp. A couple of quiet birds test their scales. Few students are out on the University streets at five in the morning, but in front of the Archive, there are men scouring the pavement of the last ruddy stains.

Sherlock still has two days of his time on University land remaining, but he’s not going to bother staying if he’s nothing left to stay for. He exits Mews for the last time to wait in the chilly air.

John arrives a few minutes later, alert and awake, his packs over his shoulders. “I told the masters last night that I was leaving,” he confesses. “I had to tell them something, or they would’ve thought something bad had happened,” he pauses. “You were right, you know. Master Arwyl said he’d’ve promoted me to Re’lar next term. I had to explain why I was leaving, to him at least, even though you told me not to. I asked him not to tell the others. I think he understood.”

Sherlock nods. “I wasn’t thinking last night. You’re right. Arwyl would have looked for you.”

They begin to walk.


	2. Chapter 2

The roads around Imre are usually quite busy, but it feels eerily quiet this morning.

Barely two hours from the city, John’s mind stumbles violently over something quite obvious.

He stops dead in his tracks, kicking up a tiny cloud of dust on the dirt path that they’re treading. Sherlock is a few steps ahead, but he notices when John stops, and he turns back, a questioning look on his face.

“Sherlock,” John says slowly.

“Yes?” Sherlock’s voice is hesitant, as if afraid that John has changed his mind.

This isn’t the case, exactly. “Sherlock,” John repeats.

“Where are we going?”

x

It turns out that Sherlock isn’t exactly sure _where_ they’re headed.

“Look, Sherlock, you know I trust you, but I did think that you had a destination in mind,” John says, rooted in the same place on the road.

Sherlock licks his lips uncertainly. “We’re not looking for a place, exactly.”

“Uh huh.”

There is silence.

“So what are we looking for?” John asks finally.

Sherlock motions for John to keep on moving, which he does, with some reservation.

“Do you know of the Edema Ruh?” Sherlock asks John.

Everyone knows the Ruh. John voices this, a tad irritably. And then he realizes why his friend’s mentioned this. “We’re looking for Ruh?”

Sherlock nods and resumes walking at their earlier pace.

“ _Why_ are we looking for Ruh?” John asks as he hurries to catch up with his long-legged friend.

“Kvothe is Edema Ruh,” Sherlock explains.

“ _What?_ ” John nearly stops again. “No he wasn’t. Isn’t. He’s a arcanist. And a namer. And a killer of kings and all that.”

Sherlock sighs. “And a musician. His legend has changed so many things about who he really is that it’s hard to differentiate the truth from fiction, but I know he’s Ruh.”

“Sherlock, just because he played—plays the lute, it doesn’t mean he’s Ruh. If every musician in the Four Corners were Edema Ruh, nobody could travel safely on any road in a group fewer than ten,” John argues.

To his surprise, Sherlock scowls at this. “The Edema Ruh aren’t all bandits, John. Most of them aren’t. They’re a quite honorable people, actually, but genuine robber bands like to masquerade as Ruh. It’s a clever way to gain access to towns and traveling groups.”

John shakes his head. “Mm-hm. And how do you know so much about the Ruh?” He realizes with a slight shock how little he really knows about Sherlock. He could even be Ruh himself for all John knows of his generally secretive friend.

Sherlock dispels this notion to some degree, however. “I spent some time with Ruh before I went to the University,” he admits.

John remembers something Sherlock had mentioned when they’d first met. “You studied people,” he says.

“I _study_ people,” Sherlock corrects. “But yes. The Edema Ruh were one of the peoples I studied in detail. They’re some of the least boring people I’ve met. I lived with them for nearly a year. It was with them that I learned to play this,” he gestures at the violin, strapped in its case across his back. It’s the most prominent of all of Sherlock’s baggage. In fact, the only thing that Sherlock is carrying other than the instrument is a single knapsack. John, by comparison, has with him three separate bags. Reasonably light, of course.

John nods now. “Okay. So your band of Ruh were decent people,” he concedes. “Doesn’t convince me that they all are, though. There’s got to be an authentic reason for their bad reputation.”

“I told you,” Sherlock says. He’s rolling his eyes. “That reputation comes from actual bandits—"

When he breaks off abruptly, John is puzzled for a moment before he realizes that, further down the road, there is their first fellow traveller.

Sherlock’s stopped walking as suddenly as he’s stopped speaking, and John can’t fathom why this is.

He learns, soon enough.

Sherlock pulls him off of the road sharply, grabbing his arm and physically hauling him to the side as the walker ahead of them approaches at a slow pace.

“What are you doing?” John hisses, rubbing his arm.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but plunges into the thin woods that are at the edge of the road.

“Sherlock!”

When they’re some distance from the road, Sherlock stops and leans against a tree. He’s skittish; when a squirrel jumps down from a nearby tree and scurries away, he starts, and then closes his eyes quickly.

He speaks after a few long seconds. “I can’t even look at people anymore, John.” Sherlock’s voice is very nearly plaintive.

John realizes what he’s talking about. This traveler is the first person Sherlock’s seen since Loi Seven’s death, not including John and the masters. John trusts Sherlock not to hurt him, and the masters are surely more than powerful enough to protect themselves. But this is a stranger. To Sherlock, he has his death written across his skin.

x

When Sherlock takes the little sleep he needs, he is either deathlike in his stillness or unceasingly restless. On the restless nights, his hands flutter and twitch. John doesn’t know what to make of it from a medical standpoint, but he supposes that everyone does strange things in their sleep. 

x

Sherlock slowly learns how to relax and ignore the name of blood. It seems like a monumental thing at first, but when John reminds him that he’s simply got to train his brain to do something new, Sherlock starts to make progress.

John learns that they aren’t looking for a specific band of Ruh. Sherlock had reasoned that common people would know of Kvothe's origins if his original troupe was still around. Therefore, they must be dead or gone, and of no practical use to Sherlock.

So instead, they’re looking for information.

They travel west, because Sherlock has reason to believe that Kvothe’s Ruh were from the Commonwealth, and the chances of meeting anyone who’d known him as a young boy are higher here than in the other kingdoms.

On most busy roads, one cannot travel for long without running into a Ruh troupe. It doesn’t take Sherlock and John a long time to discover one on their journey.

When they do, they tell them that they’re writing a song about Kvothe, that they’re looking for the true tales of his deeds, and if there’s anything the Edema Ruh love more than anything in the world, it’s music. They’re more than happy to help.

Sherlock speaks with the leaders of three troupes, within a span. To Sherlock, the work is more important than the deadly threat hanging over them. He’s a talented actor once he’s relaxed, and he can conjure up an impenetrable air of confidence when he needs to. 

John watches as Sherlock greets each troupe as one of their own, and although he maintains that he is not truly Ruh, John can’t help but be utterly convinced by the act. Of course, to fool people who are performers by trade is an impressive feat.

John is unsure about the usage of this kind of deception, but Sherlock insists that this is the best way to gain the information that they need.

Sherlock is usually right.

In this case, however, it doesn’t matter how convincing Sherlock is as Ruh, or how many questions he asks, because these first three troupes don’t know anything about Kvothe, further strengthening Sherlock’s argument that Kvothe’s troupe must either have died or have separated from him at an early age. The former is a provocative idea; the latter a rather improbable one.

Although the Edema Ruh consider all of their fellow Ruh family, it _is_ a rather large family. It’s only after several spans that they encounter a troupe that appears to be of use at all, though it’s not in the way that Sherlock and John had been hoping for.

The road crosses an expansive river system in several places. It is near the first of these that Sherlock and John meet the troupe led by Irene Adler.

x

Miss Adler is not Ruh-born, but was adopted into the troupe at an early age. She says her gift is for singing, and this is true, but her true talent is in perfection.

Sherlock is immediately smitten.

Irene’s Edema Ruh merge onto the road headed in the same direction as John and Sherlock. This allows them to travel together for some time, much to Sherlock’s delight.

x

Irene is inexpressibly beautiful.

It’s not just physical attraction that draws Sherlock, however. When he had first approached her, posing as Ruh, she’d seen through him immediately, despite—or perhaps due to—her own non-Ruh heritage. Her intellect is knife-sharp, and this, more than anything, is what Sherlock finds attractive.

“Do you know what the big problem with a disguise is?” Irene had asked. She hadn’t waited for an answer from Sherlock, who was moderately surprised, to say the least. “However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

Sherlock had found himself smiling at this, oddly enough.

x

John doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sherlock this infatuated by anyone. His friend’s eyes are always on Irene, and he seems so distracted by her that he doesn’t act at all bothered by the constant presence of the name of blood.

Of course, this doesn’t distract Sherlock from trying to pry information from Irene, by any means possible, but he does so quite discreetly.

He and John do confess who they really are—to a reasonable degree, of course. Sherlock doesn’t admit that he’s an arcanist, or why he’s really looking for Kvothe. He does tell Irene that both he and John are from the University, and that John is a doctor, because even the most superstitious are unlikely to find anything sinister about a true doctor.

John and Sherlock persuade the Ruh to let them travel with them. John is valuable as a healer, and Sherlock proves one night that he’s as fine an actor as the rest of them.

It’s on a day when Irene’s rehearsing a scene from _Daeonica_ , a play the troupe hasn’t done for a while. The man who’d usually play Tarsus, however, is laid low with fever, and John has forbidden him from leaving his wagon. Doctor’s orders, he says.

So Irene charges John with the task of finding a replacement Tarsus, at least so that the other performers have someone to interact with during the rehearsal.

Sherlock’s been lazing about for these first several days now. He and John have been given partial use of Kate’s wagon, since Kate spends most of her time wherever Irene is. Sherlock is currently lying at the back of the wagon, long legs dangling limp off of the end. There’s a book obscuring his face from view, but John notices him nevertheless whilst he’s walking about, looking for someone to replace his patient.

John thinks for only a moment before pulling Sherlock forcefully out of the wagon. He shepherds him to the area that’s been cleared for rehearsal.

Sherlock is still blinking at the bright sunlight when Irene approaches John, asking him if he’s serious. John is.

“Look, John, I really don’t think—“ Sherlock mutters. He’s still holding the book in his hand, and shielding his face from the sun with the other.

John cuts him off. “You’ve not done anything of use since we joined the troupe, Sherlock. Go learn some lines and be helpful.” He walks away to tend to his patient, and Sherlock is staring at Irene.

She grins back.

x

John comes back an hour later. To his surprise, Sherlock and the Ruh are sitting in a circle, laughing. John looks again. Sherlock is _laughing_.

Irene is, too. She’s laughing quite hard. John wonders what’s just happened but he feels awkward interrupting, so he quietly leaves, but not before taking a lingering look at his friend, who looks _happy_.

So John is happy, too.

x

“That’s a Ruh fiddle,” Irene says one day, by the fire. The troupe has stopped for the night.

Sherlock stops cleaning his violin’s bow. “It’s not,” he says.

Irene laughs. “I didn’t mean that it’s Ruh-made. An instrument in the hands of one of us is always a Ruh instrument, and you play like one of us. Maybe better.”

Sherlock resumes cleaning. “I’m flattered that you think so,” he says absentmindedly.

“You learned from Ruh, though, didn’t you?” Irene presses. “You knew what to say when we first met, and you certainly have the capacity for Ruh spirit, but I also believe you when you say that you were at the University for three terms. That in itself is quite extraordinary; after all, Mister Holmes, you’re awfully young. There’s quite a bit about you that I’d like to know.” She leans in towards Sherlock. “Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?”

He leans away very slightly. “I’m a scientist,” he says, repeating the partial truth he’d given her before.

“Oh, that may be true, but you’re more than that. I have people at the University, you know. I get around.” What she says next is startling, but not altogether surprising. Sherlock knows how resourceful Irene is.

“I knew who you were when you first approached me on the road. We’re not scared of arcanists here. My troupe is a bit more sensible than most common folk. You needn’t worry about persecution while you’re with us.” Irene’s voice is teasing, but she grows serious now. “I don’t entirely know why you left, though. My sources said you’d been expelled. They didn’t know the reason.”

Sherlock nods absently, digesting this information.

“I can tell that you’re not going to tell me, so I won’t ask. But rest assured that I _will_ find out.” Irene stands up from her place by the fire and walks back to her wagon, hips swaying just slightly.

Sherlock turns his gaze to the fire, placing the bow carefully in the violin case for now, and looks deep into the flames in silent contemplation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. So it's been a while. For the small group of people who've read this, I really hope you enjoy it and I'm planning on updating a little more frequently. I assure you, I do know where I'm going with this. Mostly.
> 
> Notice: This chapter was updated slightly on 22 Apr 2015


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock is full of surprises. Now, this isn’t exactly news to John, but somehow his friend manages to make each surprise, well, _surprising_.

The latest shock occurs in the inn of some nameless town that the troupe has stopped in. Some time after sunset but before Irene usually disappears off to an upstairs room with some farmer fellow, John and Sherlock find themselves with a couple of Ruh who have bet them they won’t be able to tell them a story that the Ruh don’t know.

Or, more accurately, _Sherlock_ finds himself involved in the bet. John refuses to get involved. Partially because he doesn’t know any good stories, and partially because there is no way in hell that he is willing to put twenty silver talents down on any bet.

“For Tehlu’s sake, that is a _lot_ of money, Sherlock. Do you even have twenty talents on you?” John hisses in his friend’s ear after pulling him aside for a moment.

Sherlock shrugs him off. “I will, in about five minutes,” he says, with a little too much sass for John’s liking.

John knows then that something rather interesting is bound to happen. Whether this will end in something spectacular or utterly humiliating on Sherlock’s part, however, is uncertain.

He isn’t wrong. About the _interesting_.

It turns out that Sherlock does indeed know a story that their Ruh friends do not, and not only that, but he tells it well.

x

Some time later, John will write the story down, and he will call it “The Adem and the Edema Ruh”.

x

_Once upon a time, there were no Edema Ruh._

_There were no Vints, either, for that matter, nor were there Modegans or any of those other peoples. There might have been some Aturans, but they probably didn’t realize it._

_There_ were _Adem, however. They lived in the Stormwal and didn’t talk to any of the other peoples very much, which was just fine with them, and people from other places didn’t come to Ademre either._

_Until the day somebody did._

_On that day, there were a man and a woman who lived in Ademre who loved each other very much. You know the way this works in most societies. If a man and a woman love each other, they marry and they raise children. The Adem do it a bit differently. Yes, there is love, but there is no concept like marriage, like_ permanence _for them. The Adem do not even have an idea of fatherhood. Mothers carry the sole responsibility for the creation of the child, in Adem philosophy._

_So this man and this woman, though they loved each other, did not live together, and they had no official relationship beyond friendship—though they did have a lot of sex—, and they had no children. And this was acceptable, and not only that, it was fine._

_But then one day a visitor came to Ademre._

_He was a man of elsewhere in the Four Corners, and he played the harp._

_The Adem hold music as a very emotional thing, like most peoples do. But the Adem are also a very reserved people, and as such they find music an incredibly intimate thing. To them, the travelling performer is a prostitute, playing for anonymous masses day in and day out, for a handful of coins and sometimes even just a smile. So when Amadeus visited a town in Ademre, the community did a very bad job at pretending not to be scandalized._

_On the first day, the children were curious. They touched the battered instrument that he could barely carry on his back, and they asked him questions with wondering eyes, for the young Adem do not restrict themselves in the same way that their elders do._

_By the second day, however, their mothers and teachers had warned them about the distastefulness of Amadeus’s profession. No children came to him, on the second day._

_On the third day, Ewan and Finola—these were the names of the man and the woman of our story—came to Amadeus, because they were curious about his way of showing his emotions so brashly, and of displaying_ pride, _even, in his profession._

_Amadeus had a small tent set up outside of the town. In it he had his belongings, which were few, because he carried them with him wherever he went._

_Finola was the one who asked Amadeus to teach them about his way of life. Before him, she told him, they had had no visitors from outside of Ademre._

_And Amadeus told them, Ewan and Finola, because he did not know what sort of consequences this might bring about._

_He taught them about music and what it was like to dance, both with oneself and with a partner. He taught them how to write down and decipher the language of musical notes, when Ewan asked. He showed them the basics of his instrument, the harp. He told them also that he was adept in the playing of several other instruments, but had not brought them with him for this particular trip into the Stormwal. He taught them how to systematically produce musical notes with their vocal cords, and he called this_ singing _, which Finola and Ewan recognized only as a thing done in very close, very intimate family settings._

_He explained that, to the non-Adem, song and dance were valued arts, and though they were perceived as emotional things, like among the Adem, they could also be very public, a source of social entertainment and enjoyment._

_And he taught them that this was not a bad thing._

_And then he told them about marriage, and of raising children with both a mother and a father. This concept was strangely pleasing to Ewan and Finola._

_By the end of the first span, the whole town was aware of Ewan’s and Finola’s consorting with the outsider musician. Their friends confronted them, unable to accept this sort of deviance from Adem culture. When Ewan and Finola confirmed their friends’ fears, they were slowly rejected from the community. Within a year, they had no friends but the musician Amadeus, though his company was such that they hardly noticed their own alienation from the townspeople until it was too late._

_And then Amadeus told them, one day, that he would have to be leaving the Adem. His visit had been extended far longer than he’d planned for, and he had family—his own children!—in the lowlands, far from Ademre, and he wished to see them again._

_When the couple—for this was what Ewan and Finola truly were by then—were told of this, they found themselves suddenly perplexed. With the possibility of the departure of their only friend looming abruptly near, Ewan and Finola found themselves faced with a decision._

_It was a decision easily made. The day after Amadeus told them that he was leaving, Ewan and Finola approached him and told him that if he would not stay, they would go with him._

_And so they went._

_In some years they had children and formed a family, and they brought the Adem kind of discipline to the musical trade. The discipline was the only thing they kept of their Adem heritage. Disgusted with the intolerance and elitism they’d faced from their own people, they rejected the Adem beliefs they’d grown up with and set up a nearly opposite school of thought, which they taught their children._

_Their family grew large, and those who travelled with them were not only their family, but Amadeus’s family also, and as they wandered across the lowlands, far from Ademre, they performed as a troupe._

_Many years later, long after Ewan and Finola were dead, their family had grown to such a size that some members broke off into new troupes, and they married and had children with other lowlanders, and slowly their Adem roots became only history._

_Eventually, in the stories the descendants of Ewan and Finola told their own children, the name Ademre corrupted in the common tongue they used then._

_And as the troupe of former Adem grew more skilled and accomplished at their new craft, so their name went through many twists and changes, and so their roots faded into obscurity. Today, they are the most disciplined and clever of families, and they are no longer of Ademre, but are the Edema Ruh.  
_

x

When Sherlock’s voice quiets for the last time, the inn is nearly silent. It takes John a minute to realize why.

Somehow, during the story-telling, every single person in the inn had oriented him or herself towards Sherlock’s corner. Conversation had ceased.

The two Ruh Sherlock had been challenged by are equally silent. They finally realize that the story is over.

“Where the hell did you get that story from?” the shorter of the two asks in a strained voice.

Sherlock only smirks and hold out a hand, palm up. The Ruh stares at it for a long minute before dropping a small purse into it, weakly, before getting up and leaving in a hurry.

Some time around now, Irene leaves, too, wearing a shocked face. The fact that she leaves by herself is in itself a testament to her agitation.

John gets Sherlock to himself after the rest of the room has realized that they’ve been staring. He pulls him outside.

The night air is crisp and far less stifling than the air inside. There is no one else out here, despite this. The inn’s doorway spills out onto the town’s little square.

“Where _did_ you hear that story, Sherlock?”

John and Sherlock sit on the step outside of the inn, after the door has closed.

“I didn’t _hear_ it. It was original research,” Sherlock explains. “It was part of the reason I wanted to attend the University. I needed access to the Archives.”

John doesn’t understand. “Why? What kind of theory was that? Nobody knows anything about the Adem, not really. And how in the Four Corners did you connect them to the Ruh?”

Sherlock looks like he’s about to sigh exasperatedly. He changes his mind, apparently, because he launches into a short explanation:

“When I was very young, I wanted to know everything I could about the history of the Adem. The mercenaries you meet on the road are quite secretive, but if you know the right people, you can find out all sorts of curious things. I had a lot of primary sources. During my researches, I discovered some interesting inverse counterparts in the cultures of the Edema and the Adem, and if you _think_ about it, the names Edema Ruh and Ademre are really quite close. It’s not too much of a leap to think that ‘Edema Ruh’ could be a corruption of ‘Ademre’.”

John accepts this, but now he has more unanswered questions than before.

x

Less than a week later, two Adem mercenaries intercept the troupe on the road. They wish to speak with Sherlock, they say.

Irene does not complain, but she throws an uneasy look to John when Sherlock walks some ways off with the Adem, too far for John to interfere if things become nasty.

The mercenaries are light-haired, and as pale as Sherlock. From the distance John stands at, they appear friendly enough, though he notices that both have their hands on their swords. John doesn’t know enough about the Aden to know if this is simply a relaxed position for them.

Then he remembers that Sherlock is more than capable of protecting himself. Name of blood and all that, he thinks, though, in broad daylight, this is not the best place to flaunt that particular ability.

A lot of people have heard about Sherlock’s story, it seems.

It turns out that there’s no need for worry. Sherlock and the Adem seem to have a short conversation, both parties quite calm.

And then the mercenaries leave. Nobody from the troupe even gets a chance to question them.

“What did they want?” John asks as soon as Sherlock is back by the wagons.

Sherlock flaps his hand. “Some travelers had told them about the story I told in that tavern, the Flap and Throttle, six days ago. They were curious to know how I’d known so much about their culture. I told them the same thing I told you.”

John narrows his eyes at his friend. “And they just left? That was all it took to placate a couple of peeved Adem?” And then, “They _were_ peeved, weren’t they?”

Sherlock shrugs. The caravan starts moving again.

x

By now, Sherlock has gotten himself totally under control, at least outwardly, but John still sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night to a sleeping Sherlock, unconsciously twisting his hands in agitation.

Whenever this happens, the medic in John makes a worried mental note. He plans to ask Sherlock if he’s having bad dreams, but he never manages to get around to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all two of you who read this, and thanks for commenting! It's been a while since I've published, but I hope you enjoy this chapter. The Adem-Edema Ruh connection is a personal theory of mine that I hope to see confirmed in Book 3, although, speaking of _The Doors of Stone_ , Patrick Rothfuss really is as bad as Mofftiss is at keeping up with demand. I hope to see _Doors_ out before Season 4 _Sherlock_ , at least, but who knows with those creative types?


	4. Chapter 4

“I’d like to come with you, actually,” Irene confesses. “But I like my troupe, and they like me. And you can’t continue to travel with us. Most of my troupers are already uncomfortable enough being around you, knowing what you can do. I’d risk losing half the troupe if you stayed. I’ll steer us near if we hear of you causing trouble, though,” she promises.

She blows Sherlock a kiss as the caravan leaves.

x

_One day earlier:_

It happens when the troupe is set upon by bandits in the middle of the night. Half of the group is tied up before the alarm is given, and by then, the camp is swarming with figures in dark clothes, not quite twenty by John’s later count.

John and Sherlock are fortunate enough to be on the far side of the camp, so they roll out of the wagon quietly and, with a wordless nod from John, circle around towards the captured group.

The bandits have begun ravaging the rest of the camp. A pile of loot is forming in the clearing near where the prisoners are tied to trees. Several wagons are burning, to which Sherlock mutters, “Idiots,” under his breath.

The next few minutes progress something like this:

Irene, Sherlock, and John free a couple of prisoners: Kate, and an acrobat.

Kate subsequently fells three bandits coming to subdue the troupers, and holds one hostage with a knife to his throat. Irene and the acrobat tie up the other two.

The remaining bandits have an ace up their collective sleeve, and they’re not afraid to use it: an arcanist roughing it with them threatens to boil the troupers’ blood, using hair taken from the ransacked wagons, and successively decides to demonstrate a little, just to make a point.

And then Sherlock discovers that knowing the name of blood is actually quite a bit like having a universal mommet.

While the bandit arcanist is being idiotic and shaking the mommets he’s made with the troupers’ hair, wondering why his binding isn’t working, and why he’s suddenly feeling a little hot under the skin, Irene sneaks up behind him and jabs him with something she pulls out of her cloak pocket. The arcanist hardly has time to look shocked before he slumps to the ground, unconscious. Irene kicks him twice, savagely, for good measure. The rest of the bandits are subdued fairly easily once they see what’s happened.

Irene takes care of the questioning.

“You could stand behind me and look intimidating,” she suggest to Sherlock, but he doesn’t want them to see his face.

“I’d rather as few as possible people know what I can do,” he mutters. Besides, Irene is plenty intimidating herself, he argues. This is true.

Irene walks away with enough gold to buy back the destroyed wagons, and then some.

x

She gives them the boot in Hallowfell. Before parting, however, Sherlock breaks a twig, mutters a binding, and hands one half to Irene after telling her how to contact him with it.

Neither John nor Sherlock mention to the other the fact that after all this time, they still have not achieved their primary goal: to find information relevant to the possible whereabouts of Kvothe the Arcane.

x

An older man stops John and Sherlock as they’re walking to the inn where they intend to stay the night.

“You two were traveling with the Ruh?” he asks.

John nods an affirmative. Sherlock gives his usual non-response, though his eyes take in whatever information they can obtain.

The man is nearly elderly, but there’s a certain vigor to his manner, and John takes a liking to him immediately. Sherlock, on the other hand, is studying him with an odd intensity.

“I’m the town brewer. Abenthy,” he introduces himself. “I love the Edema Ruh,” he says wistfully. “I traveled with a troupe for some time, many years ago. They’re wonderful people. Entertaining, confident, inquisitive people. Every time a troupe passes through here I ask for the news, but since you two are staying here for now, might I tempt you with a drink?” he asks.

Sherlock hesitates, but John accepts straightaway. They don’t have anything planned for the immediate future just yet, and Sherlock can plot all he wants tomorrow, when his head isn’t as filled with Irene Adler.

They follow the brewer to the inn, where the innkeeper claps him on the back and says to Sherlock and John, “This man here is the reason why all our patrons stay later than they should. It’s a blessing and a curse.”

The brewer laughs, ushering Sherlock and John inside.

The innkeep brings a bottle over from behind the counter and hands it to the brewer, who handles the bottle like a new-born child.

“My very best,” he proclaims, before unsealing the bottle and proceeding to fill the cups on the table.

As he leans over, Sherlock’s eyes catch on something and widen. “You’ve been through the Arcanum,” he blurts.

The other man freezes. “Sorry?”

Sherlock lowers his voice slightly. “You’re wearing a genuine _gilthe_. You’ve graduated from the University.”

The old brewer sets the bottle down and looks at Sherlock curiously. “Perhaps we should talk somewhere else,” he suggests.

x

Sherlock and John follow the older man to his home, some ways away from the center of town.

The house is dark when they walk in. The brewer glances at Sherlock and John once before muttering something. Several sympathy lamps light themselves, illuminating the house.

Sherlock immediately looks around.

On a shelf is a picture of a woman, pretty in an ordinary way but with a generous smile. The frame is draped in black cloth, and Sherlock sees that the décor in the home is rather somber. This man is in mourning, and the dead woman is probably his wife.

There are no sounds in the house save for the ones that the trio make, and they sit down around a well-worn table.

“What do you know about the Arcanum?” the old man asks, rubbing his eyebrows with his fingertips. His question is addressed to both Sherlock and John.

Sherlock is the one who answers. “We were E’lir at the University. John still is, technically.”

The brewer looks sharply at him. “And what about you?’

Sherlock hesitates. “I was expelled,” he confesses.

Abenthy’s response is not what John expects. Instead of asking Sherlock the logical question, the _why_ , or simply throwing the two of them out of his house, he sits back and, after a beat, laughs.

“What?” Sherlock demands.

“They seem to be expelling students by the dozens these days, don’t they?” the older man says with a cynical grin.

John shoots Sherlock a look. His friend just shrugs. “Excuse me?” John asks carefully.

Abenthy sighs. “The University is _falling_. Not because of any particular one thing. But these times are strange times. It’s always been expensive, for one,” he says, lifting a finger. “And the reputation it’s been getting with Kv—the Kingkiller’s name associated with it these days isn’t quite helping, either. Most of the Masters are approaching old age, and there isn’t as much of a student influx as usual. Young people just don’t seem to be as interested in learning from the older generation any longer. Present company excluded, I’m sure,” he says, nodding at the duo.

Sherlock isn’t listening, though. John steals a glance at his friend, who is staring intently at Abenthy’s face, brow furrowed, but clearly not listening to his words.

“Sherlock,” John hisses, nudging his knee under the table.

The brewer notices. “Is something wrong?”

Biting his lip, Sherlock appears to reach a decision. “Mister Abenthy. This may seem far-fetched… but did you happen to know Kvothe? Personally?”

The reaction he gets is palpable. Abenthy draws back in his chair, face pale. “Why are you here? What do you know?” he manages to whisper. There might be fear in his eyes, but it doesn’t seem to be for himself.

John kicks Sherlock and glares at him. His friend ignores him and leans forward on the table, hands open. “I’m just a student. Sir. Or I was. But I’m convinced that Kvothe is alive, and I think you are, too.”

Abenthy regains his composure. This time, he sends a glare Sherlock’s way. “And what makes you think that?”

Sherlock launches into an explanation, ignoring the brewer’s agitation. “I didn’t know, at first. But when you mentioned Kvothe earlier, you avoided saying his name, though by the way you said “Kingkiller”, it pained you to refer to him by such a title. Some, who believe Kvothe to be some sort of demon, might refuse to mention him by name, but you’re a fully-trained arcanist and clearly an educated man, so you wouldn’t avoid saying his name, particularly only his _given_ name, out of fear of demonic detection. It was a bit of a shot in the dark to assume that you knew him personally, but given your reaction to my question, not only did you know him, but you have some inkling of his whereabouts and fear for his safety. Please rest assured, Abenthy, that neither John nor I have any ill intentions toward Kvothe,” he inserts. Then he pauses, gauging Abenthy’s emotions.

He continues when he sees that the other man appears wary, but not closed-up or angry. “I may be theorizing without all the evidence, but you also mentioned earlier that you’d travelled with the Edema Ruh many years back. Was this where you met Kvothe? Assuming, of course, that you did know him?” he adds, relatively politely.

Abenthy appears to be coming to a decision of his own. John looks away, slightly embarrassed.

Then Abenthy stands, walking toward the door. Sherlock blinks in surprise, but all the brewer does is lock the door, before proceeding to seal each window in the house and pull the curtains shut.

He returns to the table, visibly making his own evaluation of Sherlock and John, before sitting back down.

“What I am about to tell you—on an utter whim, mind you—is something that cannot be spoken of outside of this room. I need your binding word that you will not say, write, reference, or otherwise allude to this discussion until you either find Kvothe or die, whichever comes first.”

The pair of young men share an excited look.

Abenthy continues. “This includes between each other, even in spaces that you believe secure. When and if you do reach Kvothe, you can discuss this agreement with him. It’s only a very minor part of his story, but it’s _his_ story nevertheless. It belongs to him. I need to know if you will do this, now. Otherwise, you will need to leave immediately, and I shall be far from here by tomorrow morning.”

There’s really no decision to make at all. Sherlock and John give their words as Abenthy directs.

And then they settle in to hear what the old arcanist has to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...wow. I... I'm sorry. I actually don't have much to say regarding my slow pacing except for that. And I'm sorry that this chapter is a little shorter than usual but I wanted to cut it off where I did...
> 
> However. I would like to mention that it is currently March 2015, I've been working on this fic for nearly a year and a half now, and yes I am going to finish it if it takes me... well... erm
> 
> Totally unrelated note now: If you have not read Neil Gaiman's comic book series _The Sandman_ , then any time—ahem, _right now_ —is always a good time to do so. I say this because I know that Patrick Rothfuss has read them, regards them as one of his top forty sci-fi/fantasy books/series, and because one of the spinoffs, a seventy-five issue series called _Lucifer_ , has some interesting elements that are quite a bit like in the Kingkiller Chronicle. I have no idea if Rothfuss has read _Lucifer_ or not, or whether the concepts I am going to mention now originate from somewhere else entirely, but here's just a note:
> 
> The protagonist of _Lucifer_ —who is, in case you couldn't tell, Lucifer himself—, in one memorable scene, uses leaves on the wind to scatter his blood about a city, thereby confusing some would-be antagonists (He also uses sympathetic magic, as do other characters in the _Sandman_ universe, but technically sympathetic magic is a real-world thing, so that doesn't really count for anything). Anyway, if that doesn't sound familiar, you might have stumbled into the wrong fanfic.
> 
> Yes, that was a blatant attempt at trying to get more people to read _The Sandman_. Has it worked?


End file.
